


Make Me

by thewriterinallofus



Series: Life is a Song That Goes on Forever [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dancing, Dorks, Films, Ice Cream, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Painting, Pining Enjolras, Swing Dancing, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-14 20:45:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3424976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewriterinallofus/pseuds/thewriterinallofus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One Friday, opportunity comes knocking, and Enjolras takes full advantage of it. Now, Friday night equals movie night with Enjolras and Grantaire, featuring Unresolved Sexual Tension in the form of the phrase "make me." If only Enjolras could tell Grantaire how he felt. If only Grantaire realized how Enjolras felt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thomas J and Mr. Lincoln

**Author's Note:**

> This occurs around six months after "Before the Fire Dies." You don't have to read that fic to understand this one, but certain lines will make more sense, and Pining!jolras will seem less OOC. This is sort of tropey, and dumb, but it helps me relax.  
> I don't own Les Mis, and am unbetaed, so any and all mistakes are mine.  
> Happy reading!

Enjolras grinned at the design in front of him. He'd asked Grantaire to meet him at the Musain so that they could go over the artist's latest works. “I love it, Aire. It’s perfect.”  
The artist smiled. “So what are you going to do tonight?”  
The blonde shrugged. “I don’t know. You?”  
“I was just going to go home, get a drink, get some Chinese take-out, and watch a movie.” Grantaire paused. “You could…you could join me, if you like.” The artist mentally slapped himself; what was he doing? “ _He’s only being nicer to you because he pities you, and feels bad_ ,” Grantaire thought to himself. “ _There’s no way he actually wants to spend time with you._ ”  
On the other hand, Enjolras’ eyes widened.  
Almost immediately after the attempt, Enjolras realized that at some level, he loved the artist.  
After four months, Enjolras realized that his brotherly love had turned romantic.  
So, for two months now, Enjolras had been pining.  
He immediately replied, “I’d love to.” Opportunities to spend at least two unadulterated hours with the object of your affections didn’t come around every day.  
Grantaire looked up in surprise. Well then. He reached out, grabbing Enjolras’ hand. “C’mon. Rhiannon’s out back.”  
Enjolras narrowed his eyes as Grantaire dragged him around the back of the Musain. “Who’s Rhiannon?”  
Grantaire stopped in front of a black Harley-Davidson. “This is Rhiannon,” he announced proudly.  
Enjolras quirked an eyebrow at him. “Rhiannon? Like the Celtic goddess? Or like the song? That is a song, right?”  
“Yeah, it’s by Fleetwood Mac. And, uh, actually I just kind of liked the name.” Grantaire reached over, and procured two black helmets, offering one to Enjolras.  
The blonde warily took the helmet offered him, and pulled it over his halo of blonde curls.  
The dark haired artist grinned. “It suits you, Apollo,” he said, pulling his own helmet on.  
Grantaire climbed on to the motorcycle. He paused before saying, “Well? You getting on or what?”  
Enjolras shook his head, as though to bring him back to reality. “Oh, yeah. Of course.” He climbed on behind Grantaire. Enjolras wasn’t sure what to do beyond that.  
Grantaire sensed this, and directed him. “Hold on to me, so you don’t go flying.”  
Enjolras gingerly put a hand on either side of Grantaire’s ribcage. The artist turned the key in the ignition, and the engine roared to life. Enjolras jumped in fright, his arms wrapping around Grantaire’s waist.  
The artist smiled. “Rhiannon’s bark is worse than her bite.”  
“What…Whatever y-you say,” Enjolras stammered.  
They sped away toward Grantaire’s apartment.

* * *

 

Enjolras followed Grantaire up the steps to the artist’s apartment. He swallowed as Grantaire swung the door open; the last time he’d been here, he’d found Grantaire close to death.  
Enjolras stopped in tracks. Grantaire turned around, his expression confused. “You can come in, you know.”  
Enjolras nodded. “Right.” He took a deep breath, and crossed the threshold.  
“The menus are in the desk drawer there. I’m going to get us drinks. What would you like?”  
Enjolras shrugged noncommittally. “Beer it is,” Grantaire said. Enjolras moved to the desk drawer, pulling out the menus.  
He flipped through the take out menus in shock. “I didn’t know there were this many takeout places in town.”  
“Yeah, I’ve acquired several menus over the years,” Grantaire called from the kitchen. He walked out to where Enjolras stood, deliberating. He offered one of the Blue Moons he kept for special occasions; Grantaire counted Enjolras agreeing to spend the evening with him as a special occasion.  
Enjolras took the drink almost absentmindedly. He wrenched the cap off, and took a rather large swig, surprising Grantaire.  
Enjolras held up a battered looking menu for a Chinese restaurant. “This one.”  
Grantaire nodded, grinning. “Good choice. It’s one of my favorites. What do you want?”  
“Surprise me,” Enjolras said. Grantaire nodded, pulling out his phone. The artist proceeded to order their food in perfect Mandarin.  
Enjolras’ jaw dropped, and he stared at Grantaire for the duration of the call. When Grantaire hung up, Enjolras cried, “You speak Mandarin?”  
The artist nodded sheepishly. “I took a few courses.”  
“Any other talents I should know about?”  
Grantaire just chuckled, and walked over to a cabinet. “Here’s my movie collection. If you don’t find anything you like, we can browse Netflix.”  
Enjolras nodded, coming up behind Grantaire to get a better look at the menagerie of films.  
After scrutinizing them for a moment, Enjolras stated, “You know, you have a lot of chick flicks.”  
“I thought that inanimate objects didn’t have a gender,” Grantaire drawled.  
Enjolras scowled. “They don’t. I’ll give you that. That doesn’t change the fact that the target audience of these films are mostly female.”  
Grantaire tipped his bottle in Enjolras’ direction. “True.”  
Enjolras reached out and grabbed the first movie he got ahold of. “My Girl,” he read.  
Grantaire’s breath caught in his throat. “Oh, Patria. Get some tissues.”  
Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “Tissues? It looks like two twelve year olds having their sexual awakenings.”  
“It’s so much more than that,” Grantaire wailed sarcastically, taking the DVD from Enjolras and cradling it to his chest.  
Enjolras looked skeptical. “Are you sure you want to watch it if it’s so emotionally compromising.”  
Grantaire nodded. “Nostalgia.”  
“Okay,” Enjolras replied, reaching his hand out. “Give it here.”  
Grantaire did as he was told, and handed it over. Enjolras put the disk in the DVD player.

* * *

 

Fifteen minutes into the film, the deliveryman arrived.  
Grantaire paused the film, and got up to pay.  
Enjolras watched the artist cross the room. Again, Grantaire conversed in perfect Mandarin.  
The deliveryman said something that caused the tips of Grantaire’s ear to turn red. The artist tried to stammer something, but was cut off by the deliveryman. The redness on Grantaire’s ears turned into a flush, turning his face bright red.  
The artist shut the door, and proceeded to rest his forehead on it.  
Enjolras, concerned for Grantaire’s well being, walked up behind him. “Aire?”  
Grantaire spun around, and clasped a hand to his chest. “Jesus, Apollo, you scared me.”  
“Sorry.” Enjolras paused. “What did that delivery man say to make you blush so badly?”  
“You really don’t want to know.”  
“Actually, I do. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have asked.”  
Grantaire sighed. “He basically told me to watch out, or he’ll steal my pretty girl away,” he informed Enjolras, wincing all the while.  
“As if anyone could steal me from you.”  
Both boys’ eyes went wide when they realized what Enjolras had said. Grantaire’s because from anyone else that line would sound like flirting. Enjolras’ because he’d said it out loud.  
Grantaire cleared his throat. “We…we should eat while the food is still hot.”  
Enjolras nodded.  
They awkwardly made their way to the couch, and started the movie up again.

* * *

 

Grantaire was never good at handling Thomas J’s death.  
Apparently, neither was Enjolras.  
The blonde had remained fairly steadfast until Vada cried, “Where are his glasses?” The tears that had been forming in his eyes began to flow freely.  
Grantaire reached out, resting his hand on top of Enjolras’. “Hey, it’s okay.”  
“No it’s not. No one deserves to have their friend wrenched away from them like that.”  
The artist tentatively draped an arm across Enjolras’ shoulders. “I know. It’s awful.”  
“No, you don’t understand. I was almost there. That could’ve been you in that casket.”  
Grantaire’s eyes went wide. “I’m an idiot. I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about it.” He tightened his grip on the blonde, and gently placed a hand on one side of Enjolras’ face. “But, I’m here. I’m okay, and I’m here. I won’t leave you.”  
Enjolras nodded, and dropped his head on Grantaire’s shoulder.

* * *

 

Grantaire spent the rest of the movie with a blonde revolutionary in his arms.  
When the credits finally rolled, Enjolras reluctantly stood and stretched. “Ow,” he whined, as his back cracked in several places. “I am not looking forward to the walk home.”  
“So don’t go,” Grantaire muttered, torn between actually wanting Enjolras to stay and him leaving so that Grantaire could sort his thoughts.  
Enjolras didn’t hear him. “I’m really glad I came, Aire. We should do this again sometime.”  
Grantaire nodded noncommittally. Enjolras gently tipped his chin up. “I mean it. We should do this again. I don’t remember the last time I had this much fun.”  
At this Grantaire smiled. “I’m glad you had fun.” He stood. “Do you want me to call you a cab?”  
Enjolras shook his head as he began to walk toward the door. “No, it’s okay. I’ll just walk. I don’t mind.”  
Grantaire opened the door for him. “Well, be careful. You might get jumped by randy deliverymen.”  
Enjolras beamed. “Goodnight, Grantaire.” He didn’t know what power possessed him, but he leaned forward and kissed the artist on the cheek.  
This simple gesture elicited a deeper shade of red than the deliveryman had, and Enjolras felt proud.  
“Goodnight,” Grantaire muttered.  
When the door shut, the artist sunk to the floor.  
“I am so screwed,” he said despondently.  
Enjolras, who had sunk to the ground on the other side of the door, was grinning like an idiot. He slowly ran his thumb over his lower lip. The blonde tipped his head back, and sighed. “I am royally screwed,” he whispered, though he couldn’t bring himself to care.

* * *

 

Enjolras did not see Grantaire for a whole week. This was understandable, as it was finals week, so even the weekly meeting of Les Amis was cancelled. The next Friday, Enjolras sank into his sofa, moaning. He’d finally had his last final on the rainiest day of the year.  
Courfeyrac snickered. “Glad to be done?”  
“Hell yes.”  
His friend smiled. “Are you sure you don’t want to do anything tonight?”  
Enjolras nodded. “Yes, I’m sure. I just want to put on a historical film and fall asleep ten minutes in.”  
“Okay, ‘cause Jehan and I…”  
“I know. You wouldn’t mind me tagging along. You said that several times already. Go out, get wasted, and get a hotel room. Have fun.”  
Courfeyrac grinned like the Cheshire cat as Jehan exited the bedroom. “Okay, Enj. We’ll see you before Monday.”  
Enjolras wrinkled his nose. “Ugh, I’m suffocating in the stench of love. Get out.”  
“We love you, too,” Jehan supplied.  
When Enjolras was sure they weren’t returning on account of forgetting something, he put in “Lincoln.” Then he tipped his head back, closing his eyes. He was just on the verge of sleep when the doorbell rang.  
He groaned, raking his fingers through his hair. He reluctantly stood and flung the door open, saying, “What did you forget…Grantaire?” Enjolras couldn’t keep the smile off his face.

* * *

 

Grantaire had tossed the previous Friday around his brain endlessly. Enjolras had willingly spent two hours with him. “ _He’s pitying you._ ” Enjolras had spent at least half an hour tucked in his arms. “ _He was emotionally compromised._ ” Enjolras had kissed his cheek. “ _It’s not like that’s an uncommon practice between friends._ ”  
Despite his cynical misgivings, Grantaire eventually decided there was only one way to figure out what was going on with Enjolras.  
And so, the artist stood in the blonde’s doorway, completely soaked from the rain, his helmet under one arm, a bag of takeout in the other. “Hey, Apollo.” His whole body convulsed, shivering, and fighting off sneezes.  
Enjolras reached out, grabbing the artist’s wrists. “You’re soaked to the skin! Get in! Out of the rain. Take those wet clothes off! I’ll go get you a towel!”  
Enjolras darted off. It wasn’t until he reached the linen closet that he realized that he’d ordered Grantaire to strip. “I’m going to regret this. I know it,” he muttered. Shaking his head, he grabbed a towel and an old duvet.  
When he walked back into the living room, he found Grantaire curled up by the fireplace, his soaking wet jacket and jeans drying by the hearth. Enjolras raised his eyebrows at the blue jeans Grantaire had donned.  
“And before you ask, no I wasn’t a Boy Scout. I just always keep a spare pair of pants on the bike.”  
Enjolras smiled. “You’re psychic.” He knelt down, pulling Grantaire into a sitting position. Enjolras gently draped the duvet around his friend’s shoulders. The artist clung to the blanket, drawing it as tightly around himself as was possible. “Thanks.”  
The revolutionary grinned. Even with his solid frame, the duvet completely swamped Grantaire, making him look like a child. “No problem,” Enjolras replied, beginning to dry Grantaire’s dark curls.  
The artist was trying to ignore the fact that Enjolras was drying his hair. Pointing to the television, Grantaire asked, “What’re you watching?”  
“Lincoln.”  
“I heard that was supposed to be pretty good. What do you think?”  
Enjolras scratched his head. “It was good the first time around, but it’s starting to grow a bit stale.”  
Grantaire bit his lip. “Ever seen ’12 Years a Slave’?”  
Enjolras shook his head.  
The artist smiled. He reached toward the bag of takeout, pulling out a DVD. “Put that in. I’ll set up the food and pour the burgundy. Nothing cures the ache from a full day of finals like some Italian food and wine.”  
Despite the fact that wine was definitely not his choice method of dealing with post-finals stress, Enjolras smiled at Grantaire’s thoughtfulness. “Okay.”  
“Out of curiosity,” the artist mused, “Should we be expecting any company? Namely, your roommates?”  
Enjolras shook his head. “Courfeyrac is taking Jehan on a ‘weekend escape.’” He visibly shuddered.  
“Are they really that bad?”  
Nodding emphatically, Enjolras turned to face Grantaire. “Sickening. If I hadn’t pushed them out, I don’t think they’d have gotten farther than the couch.”  
Grantaire snorted. “And this is why I don’t have roommates.” He paused. “What about Combeferre?”  
Enjolras grinned knowingly. “I believe he’s invited Éponine to go see a movie with him.”  
The artist beamed. “Took them long enough.”  
The revolutionary quirked an eyebrow. “You knew about this?”  
Grantaire snorted. “Please. They’ve been hot for each other since they got locked in a closet during Truth or Dare. Not that anything went down. Something came up, though,” he said with a devilish grin.  
Enjolras laughed. “I remember that night. Didn’t you end up kissing Cosette?”  
“Yes,” Grantaire replied, between chuckles. “Marius is lucky.”  
Enjolras shuddered “How about we don’t talk about my sister’s kissing skills?”  
Grantaire took a bite of food, before saying, “Fair enough. You sat out that night, right?”  
Enjolras hummed in agreement. “Always do,” he muttered, cheeks flushing.  
Grantaire didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to read Enjolras’ expression. He reached out and patted the blond man’s shoulder. “It’s cool, man. When it happens, it happens. There’s no deadline for life’s milestones.”  
Enjolras smiled. “Thanks, Grantaire.” He paused pensively. “It’s just…”  
“Enj, it’s fine. I completely understand. Like I said, when it happens, it happens. I can’t wait to hear about it when it does. Whoever you share it with will be very lucky.”  
Grantaire grimaced, the image of Apollo in the arms of some Hyacinthus proving unpleasant. And people wondered why Dionysus drank so.  
Enjolras couldn’t help but think that the person with whom he wanted to share that first kiss would excite Grantaire very much.

* * *

 

A little over two hours later and three glasses of wine each, Enjolras turned to Grantaire incredulously. “That. Was. The. Best. Film. Ever. Oh my God.”  
Grantaire smiled. “I’m glad you liked it.”  
“What possessed you to come over tonight,” Enjolras asked after a moment.  
The artist shrugged. “I had a lot of fun last Friday. That, and I knew you’d had a hellish amount of finals. I thought you could use the company.”  
Enjolras smiled. “I’m glad you thought of it. Of me.”  
Grantaire just smiled, leaning into Enjolras. “Anything for you, Apollo.”  
The blonde caught the artist’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “You’re too kind. I don’t deserve it.”  
“You’re just saying that.”  
“I’m really not.”  
“Yes, you are. Shut up.”  
Enjolras raised his eyebrow. “Make me.”  
Grantaire reached over and clamped a hand over Enjolras’ mouth. The artist snapped the hand away when something warm and wet trailed over it. “You licked me! Ugh.” Grantaire wiped his hand on Enjolras’ arm.  
Enjolras snickered. “So I did. What are you going to do about it?”  
The artist grinned menacingly, and leaned over, licking the side of Enjolras’ face.  
The blonde gaped. “You…y-you…,” he spluttered.  
Grantaire laughed.  
“You little devil!” Enjolras reached forward, catching Grantaire’s ribs. The artist gasped, and then burst into more laughter.  
“Mercy! Cease and desist,” he choked out between chortles.  
“Make me.”  
Grantaire reached down to tickle the skin on the back of Enjolras’ knee. The blonde shrieked, flailed about, and fell off the couch.  
Grantaire peered over the edge. “Apollo? Are you – hey!” Enjolras had grabbed the collar of Grantaire’s hoodie, pulling him onto the floor.  
In an attempt to not crush Enjolras, Grantaire managed to flip himself in the air, and landed flat on his back, knocking the wind out of him.  
Enjolras’ eyes flew open. “Grantaire! Are you okay?” The artist was unable to answer, only a croak emitting from his mouth.  
The revolutionary cradled Grantaire’s face between his hands. “Aire? Speak to me? Have I hurt you?”  
Grantaire swallowed. “No, I’m fine. Just got the breath knocked out of me,” he managed hoarsely.  
Enjolras dropped his forehead onto Grantaire’s. “Thank Patria.”  
The artist froze when he sized up the other man’s proximity. He cleared his throat.  
Enjolras shot backwards, smashing his head against the edge of the coffee table. “Dammit!” He curled up, leaning against the couch, one hand pressed to the goose egg forming on the back of his head.  
Grantaire jumped up and ran to the kitchen. He came back with a plastic bag full of ice wrapped in a dishcloth. “Come here,” he said, kneeling next to Enjolras. He pressed the ice pack against the bump.  
Enjolras winced.  
“Sorry,” Grantaire said quietly.  
“Not your fault. I’m just exceedingly clumsy.”  
The artist held up two fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?”  
Enjolras sighed. “Two. My vision is fine. I didn’t even hit my head that hard.”  
“Whatever you say. Don’t blame me when you lose your sight.”  
“I won’t. I’ll just make you lead me around.”  
“I’ve been reduced to a seeing eye dog,” Grantaire protested, in mock indignation.  
Enjolras reached up to ruffle his inky curls. “Yes, but a very cute seeing eye dog.”  
Grantaire’s eyebrows shot up. “Cute?” Well, that was interesting.  
The blonde’s eyes shot open. Enjolras chuckled shakily. “Did I say that? Out…loud?”  
Grantaire nodded. “You did.”  
Enjolras’ eyes were like saucers. “Aire, I…”  
Just then, Grantaire and Enjolras’ phones vibrated simultaneously.  
_-R, I need to talk to you. – É_  
_-Enjolras, I need to speak with you. – Ferre_  
Goddamn it.  
Grantaire looked up from his phone first. “Do you think it went well, or not?”  
“Ferre would’ve called if it’d gone poorly. I think it went well.”  
“You realize this probably means I should head home?”  
Enjolras nodded sadly. “Yeah, I know.”  
Grantaire stood up and stretched. “At least it stopped raining.”  
Enjolras smiled, and handed Grantaire his helmet. “Thanks for coming over.”  
“My pleasure.” He slowly walked to the door, followed by Enjolras. Grantaire stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “Hey. Got a question.”  
“Hmm?”  
“Are you free next Friday?”  
Enjolras nodded. “I am. Do you want to watch another movie?”  
Grantaire grinned. “Be at my place around seven.” He opened the door. “See you later, Apollo.” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the corner of the revolutionary’s mouth.  
“See you later,” Enjolras called weakly, his eyes wide with shock.  
As soon as the door closed, the blonde limply flopped onto his sofa. He couldn’t help the grin that split his face.

* * *

 

Grantaire replied to Éponine when he was safely home.  
_-What did you want to talk about? – R_  
_-My date. ☺ Omg! Taire, he’s such a gentleman! He held the umbrella for me, drove his car, which is really lame, but it was super adorable, and then he took me to this really fancy French restaurant, and we went to see this really romantic film. And I might’ve gotten a kiss. On the cheek. But it was still a kiss. ☺ - É_  
_-Glad you had a good night. – R_  
_-What did you do all evening? – É_  
Grantaire swallowed hard. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to lie to Éponine, but he didn’t know if Enjolras wanted their little soirées to become public knowledge. Les Amis had a tendency to…assume things.  
_-Watched a movie, ate some Italian, and drank some wine. - R_  
There. That wasn’t a lie. He’d merely…omitted certain information. Like, how he’d spent the entire evening with Enjolras.  
How he’d almost kissed the man full on the mouth.  
Grantaire almost smiled, until the cynic in him caught up. Enjolras was probably pissed, especially after what he’d told Grantaire.  
“I’m such an idiot.”

* * *

 

Enjolras waited until Combeferre returned home.  
“What’s up, Ferre?”  
“I kissed her.” The man was beaming.  
Enjolras was surprised. “What, like on the lips?”  
“No. On the cheek. But it made her blush.” Apparently, it made Ferre blush, too.  
“I’m happy for you. I better be the first to know when you actually make it to first base.”  
“You’re one to talk.”  
Enjolras blushed. He didn’t suppose a kiss just shy of his mouth actually counted as first base.  
“Wait, what?”  
It was only then that Enjolras realized he’d been speaking aloud.  
Combeferre removed his glasses, cleaning the lenses with the hem of his shirt. “Enjolras, explain yourself.”  
Enjolras swallowed hard, and looked his friend in the eye. “There’s this guy.”  
Combeferre’s eyebrows shot up. “There’s a guy? Enj, have you been holding out on me?”  
Enjolras dragged his fingers through his hair. “I wish I had more to tell. A kiss here doesn’t quite count,” he said, pointing to the corner of his mouth. “Of course, I did get a kiss, so…” He blushed.  
Combeferre ruffled the blonde’s curls. “I’m happy for you.”


	2. Everybody Wants to Cut Footloose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The continuing cinematic adventures of two dorks in love. Will the UST resolve itself? Will Grantaire figure out how Enjolras feels?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a lot of them being dorks, and watching movies. I don't own Les Mis, the Aristocats, or Footloose. Like I said, this is mostly me rambling, but it's fun to write, and I hope it's fun to read.

_Enjolras swallowed hard, and looked his friend in the eye. “There’s this guy.”_

_Combeferre’s eyebrows shot up. “There’s a guy? Enj, have you been holding out on me?”_

_Enjolras dragged his fingers through his hair. “I wish I had more to tell. A kiss here doesn’t quite count,” he said, pointing to the corner of his mouth. “Of course, I did get a kiss, so…” He blushed._

_Combeferre ruffled the blonde’s curls. “I’m happy for you.”_

* * *

 

Enjolras practically skipped towards his bedroom.

Pausing, Combeferre looked over the rim of his glasses at Enjolras. “How long has this been going on?” The guide was not used to missing these sorts of things.

Enjolras opened his mouth to answer, but stopped. “We’ve only been on two dates.”

Combeferre frowned. “That’s not what I meant. You seem over the moon. How long have you felt this way?”

The blonde seemed reluctant to answer, but eventually replied, “I’ve only been thinking of him in this capacity for a couple of months.”

Combeferre snorted. “And you only just started dating?”

Enjolras’ shoulders slumped. “We could’ve been dating for a while now. I was just blind to emotions. Mine and his.” He straightened up. “But that’s all going to change.”

Suddenly, Combeferre caught a familiar whiff of wine and oil paint in the air. Ferre only knew one person who smelled like that.

Enjolras’ words echoed in Combeferre’s head.

“It couldn’t be,” he murmured. 

Enjolras halted in the doorway. “What couldn’t be?”

“Oh, nothing. Just quoting an Edgar Albert Guest poem. Jehan showed it to me the other day. I actually liked it.”

The blonde raised a brow suspiciously, but continued into his room.

* * *

 

Enjolras knocked on Grantaire’s door, feeling a bit bad for showing up twenty minutes early.

He heard some shuffling from the apartment, a few bangs, and several curses. The blonde had to fight to contain his laughter.

A couple of moments later, Grantaire threw the door open.

Enjolras smirked. The artist’s jeans and Panic! At the Disco t-shirt were splattered with paint. One hand was streaked in red paint, the other in cobalt blue. There was a smear of green across one cheek. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Enjolras stepped forward, throwing his arms around Grantaire.

The artist stiffened in surprise, but soon looped his arms around the other man.

“What brought that on,” Grantaire asked when Enjolras let him go.

Enjolras turned bright red. “I…uh…I guess I missed you.”

Grantaire’s face suddenly matched the cadmium red paint staining his fingers. “I…I missed you, too.” There was an awkward pause. “Do you…please, come in.”

Enjolras did just that, and then asked, “What movie are we watching tonight?”

“I was thinking about ‘The Aristocats.’ It’s a kid’s movie, but it was my sister’s and my favorite, and we loved anything to do with Paris. Also, you need to be schooled in Disney films.”

“Parlez-vous français,” Enjolras asked curiously. 

“Bien sûr, monsieur. Ce est la langue des amoureux. Chaque homme devrait savoir parler il,” Grantaire replied with a grin.

“Vous parlez magnifiquement,” Enjolras said.

“Merci beaucoup.”

Enjolras looked around the apartment. There was a well-worn drop cloth on the floor, and a canvas covered in corresponding colors to the paint on the artist’s skin. “Did the muse strike tonight?”

Grantaire ran a hand through his hair. “Yes.” Enjolras snickered at the blue highlights the artist acquired.

“What? Is there something in my teeth,” Grantaire asked sarcastically.

“No,” Enjolras answered. “You just have paint…um…everywhere.”

The artist blanched. “God, I must look a mess.”

Enjolras reached out to grab Grantaire’s red hand. “No, it’s a good look on you. I like it.”

The artist quickly pulled his hand back. “You’re going to get paint on yourself.”

The revolutionary nonchalantly rubbed his hand over his forehead and through his curls. “Oh well.”

Grantaire smiled. “Good choice. Red suits you.” He waited a beat, and then continued. “I am serious about the paint. C’mon. Let’s go wash it off.”

 

* * *

 

Enjolras followed Grantaire to the tiny bathroom. The artist took out two paint-stained washcloths, a bottle of soap, and some rubbing alcohol.

The artist turned to the blonde and cleared his throat. “Here. Take this, and be careful not to rub too hard.”

Enjolras nodded, and took the rag and soap.

They washed in silence, until Grantaire murmured, “I didn’t order dinner yet. I’m not that hungry.”

Enjolras blushed, though it was hidden by the pinkness of his freshly washed face. “That’s okay. I’m not really hungry, either.” He brushed past the artist to the kitchen, where he plucked two beers from the fridge, then settled in the living room, sitting cross-legged on the couch.

Grantaire made a show of setting the DVD up before sitting down. He sat as far from Enjolras as he possibly could.

“Are you okay,” the blonde asked, proffering one of the bottles.

“What? Yeah, I’m fine.” Grantaire took the beer abruptly.

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “Really? Then why do you look so tense?”

Grantaire took a deep breath. “I just…I’m sorry.”

“For what? Being covered in paint? Because I really liked the paint. It’s very…you.”

Grantaire cracked a smile. “No. I’m sorry for last time, when I left. Because I…you know…” He tapped the corner of his mouth. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I wasn’t thinking…why are you laughing?”

Grinning, Enjolras wiped at the tears in his eyes. “That’s what you’ve been worried about? Grantaire, if I were uncomfortable, I would tell you. I’m not.” He scooted closer to the artist. “To be perfectly honest, I kind of liked it.” Enjolras regretted the words as soon as he said them; he didn’t want to give away too much too soon.

Grantaire’s eyes were like saucers. “Really?” He really needed to have his hearing checked. 

Supposing there was no sense in beating around the bush, Enjolras leaned over, pressing his lips to the same place that Grantaire had kissed him last week. “Really.” The blonde snuggled into the other man’s side.

After being reassured that all was well between the two of them, and encouraged by the kiss he’d received, Grantaire relaxed his posture, draping an arm over Enjolras’ shoulders.

 

* * *

 

About two minutes before Scat Cat’s introduction, Grantaire pulled Enjolras to his feet.

“Aire, what are you doing?”

The artist grinned, taking the blonde’s hands in his. “Just follow my feet. Rock step, right, left, rock step, spin you out, spin you back, rock step.”

Enjolras was a bit stiff in Grantaire’s arms, but he managed to follow. “I’m not very good at this.”

Grantaire smiled. “You don’t have to be perfect, so long as you’re in tempo. However, the first rule of any dance is to trust your partner.”

“Why?”

Without hesitating, Grantaire guided the blonde through the triple dip. Enjolras’ eyes went wide when his head came a foot away from the floor. “That’s why.”

“Oh.”

When Duchess took up the harp, the artist pulled the revolutionary into closed position.

Enjolras couldn’t help his cheeks turning red, not when Grantaire’s lips were only about two inches away.  

Thankfully, the blonde didn’t have long to contemplate the artist’s mouth, because the music became fast paced again, and Grantaire was spinning Enjolras around the room.

As the song came to an end, the artist dipped the blonde one last time before kissing his knuckles.

“Christ. I always thought Courfeyrac the debonair one. You could charm the pants off anyone you wanted.”

Grantaire snorted. “Are you charmed, Monsieur Enjolras?”

The blush gracing Enjolras’ cheeks was answer enough.

Grantaire reached out, picked up the remote, and paused the movie.

Grabbing the blonde’s hand, he said, “Come on. Let’s get some ice cream. You’ve earned it.”

 

* * *

 

Enjolras followed Grantaire to the kitchen, where the artist was rooting through his surprisingly well-stocked freezer.

Grantaire was glad for the cold air of the freezer; it cooled his burning cheeks. It had taken all his effort to kiss the blonde’s hand and not his lips.

He resurfaced with two pints of strawberry ice cream. He grabbed a can of whipped cream from the fridge, popped the lids off of the ice cream, and towered the topping on.

Enjolras gasped appreciatively. “You’re a gem, Grantaire.”

He gave a shy smile, “I try.” Grabbing two spoons, the artist padded back to the living room, Enjolras close behind.

Grantaire sat down, and Enjolras curled into his side.

Enjolras suddenly moaned obscenely around a mouthful of frozen confection. Grantaire stiffened. He chanced a sideways glance at Enjolras.

The blonde was oblivious to the artist’s discomfort at the appreciative moans directed at the pink treat.

Grantaire lasted about two minutes more before he burst out with, “Knock it off!”

The blonde whipped around. “What?”

“The moaning! God! You’re worse than Irene Adler!”

Enjolras immediately understood. What he had meant as “ _Oh, Patria, that tastes good_ ” had sounded more like “ _Oh, Patria, that feels good_ ” to Grantaire. In a second, Enjolras’ cheeks were as red as Grantaire’s.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

Grantaire shook his head. “No. I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” As if to confirm this, Enjolras twined his arms around Grantaire’s waist.

Grantaire reached up to ruffle the blonde curls.

Enjolras pulled his arms back. “As wonderful as you are to hug…ice cream,” he explained.

Grantaire merely chuckled, sticking a finger in his whipped cream, and smearing down the side of Enjolras’ nose. “You got a little schmutz on your face.”

The blonde reached up, wiped the cream off with his finger, and licked it clean.

Grantaire did not watch Enjolras swirl his tongue around his finger. Not even one peek.

Instead, he focused on eating his ice cream. There was no sense in letting good ice cream go to waste. No matter how attractive the man next to you was.

Unfortunately, Grantaire’s ice cream was gone too quickly and he had nothing to distract him from the attractive man next to him.

Grantaire’s thoughts wandered. “ _He kissed you. Like, not an actual kiss. But he said he liked you kissing him. Oh, God, that tongue. The things I would do to that tongue. Ew. Control yourself, Grantaire. He actually likes me, doesn't he?_ " 

Enjolras took his time, and finished his dessert fifteen minutes later, just as the film was ending. “ _Fifteen agonizing minutes_ ,” Grantaire thought.

The blonde scooped up Grantaire’s empty container, and carried it to the kitchen.

“You didn’t have to do that,” the artist murmured as the other man walked back.

Enjolras grinned. “I didn’t mind.” He paused. “Aire, would you want to watch another movie?”

 

* * *

 

Enjolras hoped the blush on his face wasn’t too apparent. He’d only been here for an hour and a half, and was nowhere near ready to go home.

Grantaire raised a brow. “Well, I have nowhere to be tomorrow, so I suppose we could. What did you have in mind?”

Enjolras bit his lip. “Something upbeat. Inspiring. Something with good music too.”

The artist grinned knowingly. “I’ve got just the thing.”

Grantaire did not think that there would ever come a time where the sounds of Kenny Loggins’ hit wouldn’t make him jump up and dance.

He jumped up, his hips swinging side to side.

Enjolras watched the artist warily from the couch. Well, if he was being honest, he was watching the artist’s pale hipbones.

“Why aren’t you dancing with me,” Grantaire shouted.

The blonde opened his mouth ineffectually, shrugging. “I don’t have to. You can’t make me.”

The artist quirked an eyebrow. “Can’t I?” Grantaire grabbed Enjolras’ wrist, dragging him to his feet.

“Aire, please, I can’t dance.”

The raven-haired boy grinned like the devil, and placed a hand in the small of Enjolras’ back, pulling him closer. “Then it’s time you learned.”

 

* * *

 

Enjolras had never been one for dancing.

The few times that Les Amis had convinced him to go to the club, he’d sat sulking in the corner with his phone, refusing to drink any of the brightly colored concoctions they brought him, and avoiding the dance floor like the plague.

He’d never seen the point of grinding his hips in a drunken stupor with some stranger.

However, he’d never sit in the corner again, if he only ever had to dance with Grantaire.

The man poured out his soul in his dance as much as in his paintings, and the energy was infectious.

At some point, Enjolras wanted Grantaire to feel what he was feeling, and took the artist in his arms. They flowed together and Enjolras felt like every nerve ending was on fire. He never wanted this to end.

Still, the movie ended, as all movies do.

“Well, then,” Enjolras murmured, keeping his arms looped around Grantaire’s waist.

“Are you going to head out,” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras nodded reluctantly. The artist stepped out of the blonde’s arms. “I’ll walk you out.”

The pair slowly ambled to the door. Enjolras turned, throwing his arms around Grantaire’s neck.

It was an odd thing; Grantaire was a couple inches shorter than Enjolras, and his constant slouching only served to exacerbate this difference. However, Grantaire was more solidly built than the willowy revolutionary, so when Grantaire looped his arms around Enjolras’ waist, the blonde’s feet momentarily left the floor.

“What a featherweight,” Grantaire teased.

“At least I’m not vertically challenged,” Enjolras retorted.

Grantaire gasped in mock indignation. “I’m not short! I’m fun size!”

“You’re ridiculous, but it’s alright. I think I’ll keep you.” Enjolras pressed a kiss to the artist’s forehead. Grantaire tried to keep his emotions in check. He had just gained the blonde’s trust; now was not the time to jump him. He would let Enjolras come to him. He reached out, opening the door.

“Shall I assume that you’ll come over next week,” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire nodded eagerly. “I’ll be there, unless you can’t get rid of your roommates. Then we can come here.”

Enjolras nodded, leaning forward to press a final kiss to Grantaire’s cheek. “See you then.” He skipped out the door.

Grantaire eased it shut, before sinking to the ground, his body shaking with joy. “If this is a dream, I never want to wake up.”

* * *

 

Enjolras cranked up the radio, singing along to the old eighties tune. Nothing, not even the terrible drivers with whom he shared the road, could upset him tonight.

The blonde skipped up the steps to his apartment, slamming into Combeferre’s chest upon entering the door.

The bespectacled man smiled. “So. How did it go?”

Enjolras was at a loss for words, only managing an incoherent squeak.

Combeferre laughed. “I think that means it went well?”

The blonde nodded. “I pulled an Amélie, and kissed him in the same place he did me. And we danced.” He bit his lip. “And we ate strawberry ice cream and danced some more. And we watched movies while we danced. I don’t really know what they were about, because I was too focused on…what is that look for?”

Combeferre shook his head affectionately. “Because you sound like a middle school girl.”

Enjolras cringed. “I do, don’t I?”

“It’s okay.” He reached out to place a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “Does he make you happy?”

Enjolras nodded. “This is going to sound really stupid, but I can’t keep the smile off of my face. I feel like…me again. Does that make sense?”

Combeferre shook his head. “Not a lick, but I don’t care. You’re happy, so I’m happy. That’s all that matters.”

The two finally went inside the apartment.

“Ferre, could…could I have the place next Friday? Like you and Courf out of here by 6:30?”

The other man grinned. “I think we could arrange that.”

“Thanks.”

Combeferre cleared his throat. “Just how long do you think you’ll need the apartment?”

Enjolras blushed. “I don’t want to inconvenience you. I can just…”

“Text us when he leaves.”

“I will.”

 

* * *

 

Enjolras did just that.

It became a tradition. Every Friday Enjolras and Grantaire watched a movie at one of their apartments. More often than not, they were at Grantaire’s place, which was not frequented by les Amis. More importantly, Combeferre and Courfeyrac did not inhabit Grantaire’s place. If they were at Grantaire’s they watched a chick flick, ordered Chinese food, and drank a beer.

If they were at Enjolras’ place, they watched a historical film, ordered Italian, and drank wine.

Every night, Enjolras challenged Grantaire with the words, “Make me.”

Grantaire was always left wishing he could do more than clamp a hand over the blonde’s mouth, or tickle his ribs, but he was waiting for Enjolras.

Enjolras was always left wishing that Grantaire would do more, but he was waiting for the artist.

At the end of the evening, the departing party would bestow a kiss on the other’s cheek; Enjolras’ mouth remained untouched.

The words “I love you” were never spoken, but they were there in every touch, in every kiss, and every utterance of the words “make me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading this. Stay tuned for the next work in this series, in which the UST may (or may not) be resolved. If you enjoyed this, leave kudos or a comment.

**Author's Note:**

> I know. That was probably hella stupid. Whatever. I feel better. If you enjoyed my goofiness leave a comment or kudos.  
> You can find me on Tumblr at: thewriterinallofus.tumblr.com  
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
